


Rituals (or the Seven Layer Bean Dip Approach to Sex)

by SleepySelfLoathing



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eldritch, Established Relationship, Metaphysical Sex, Other, True Angelic Form, True Demonic Form, Wings, and some others forms beside, buckle up kids it's about to get abstract in here, hair petting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 05:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20304568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepySelfLoathing/pseuds/SleepySelfLoathing
Summary: Loath as Aziraphale was to admit it, Crowley was right to be skeptical of Milton, because embracing each other’s spirits was not “Easier than air with air.” As it turns out, when you’re attempting to fuse every facet of your angelic body, mind, and soul with your demon lover on several different planes of reality, things can and will go awry if you don’t prepare beforehand.





	Rituals (or the Seven Layer Bean Dip Approach to Sex)

**Author's Note:**

> Me: Wow, I sure do appreciate that Aziraphale and Crowley can be viewed as asexual! It's not often I can see myself reflected in media!
> 
> Also me: If they don't have weird lovecraft sex right now I'm going to start screaming
> 
> This is pure self indulgence, and was really fun to write. I hope you enjoy reading it just as much.
> 
> Edit: The wonderful Thimblerig has made a podfic of this story, which can be listened to [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21508519) They did an absolutely phenomenal job, so give it a listen!

Crowley isn’t too keen on sex. 

I mean, in theory he thinks it’s fine. You do you, buddy, and all that. But in practice, he just, I dunno, finds it a bit sticky? And, like, really uncomfortable? Relaying this to Aziraphale, using nearly the exact same words, was nothing short of mortifying, so it’s a good thing he was extraordinarily drunk at the time. 

(That time being about 30 BCE, when a certain angel accused a certain snake of being pressed to an Egyptian monarch’s breast. Though he would never admit it, Crowley was scandalised).

Crowley’s aversion to sex has never hindered him, it hasn’t left him feeling bereft. It’s just something he doesn’t like talking about, or scrutinizing, and he’d like to avoid dealing with his feelings about it at all cost (this is how Crowley deals with a lot of his emotions, with varying levels of success). But during the millennia spent pining for his angelic counterpart, Crowley had been concerned that _perhaps_ Aziraphale might not understand Crowley’s preference if they were to _hypothetically_ engage in a clandestine affair of some sort. 

It turns out that his fears were totally unfounded, something Aziraphale was all too happy to disprove with a kiss and a smile shortly after the not-pocalypse.

Aziraphale doesn’t mind sex. He’s told Crowley (while drunk) that it can be very enjoyable, my dear, and the whole rigamarole of figuring out genitals and sexual preferences can be quite fun indeed, don’t you know. But, Aziraphale had confessed with a breezy sort of sigh, sex didn’t provide the same sort of satisfaction as a well-made dinner at the Ritz, and good sex was much more difficult to replicate than a good batch of crepes. 

Crowley’s memory of Aziraphale’s explanation (sexplanation, ha!) shorts out around this point. This is probably due to the copious amounts of alcohol Crowley had been consuming in an attempt to hide his embarrassment, but Crowley would hate to point fingers. 

Anyway, the point is, the _point_ is –

Crowley and Aziraphale don’t have sex. Sure, they kiss and hug, and, if they’re feeling particularly spicy, cuddle, but they don’t get down and preform the horizontal tango. It’s just as well. Crowley knows they’re both terrible dancers anyway. 

But.

But there are times when Aziraphale is holding him and all Crowley wants is to press closer and closer until he can’t tell where he starts and Aziraphale ends. There are times when Crowley sees Aziraphale looking at him with a hunger in his eyes, the kind that belies starvation. There are times when they catch each other’s gaze, and both know that they want something more than the gentle press of hands or a kiss on the cheek. 

At times like this, Crowley breaks out the chalk. 

\--

It was Aziraphale who had come up with the idea, a few months after they helped thwart the end of the world. It was raining in sheets, just the sort of dark and stormy night that was perfect for cuddling into bed with a good book, hot cocoa, and a snuggly demon (and who was Aziraphale to deny himself such pleasures?)

On this night, Aziraphale’s chosen entertainment was _Paradise Lost_, a book that Aziraphale enjoyed for its fantastical description of the Beginning and novel language (though he could not condone Milton’s unfortunate views on women). Crowley was decidedly less keen on Milton, and had made his displeasure known by hogging all the blankets. But Crowley’s consternation was easy to ignore in favour of Milton’s prose. 

Or at least it was until Aziraphale got to Raphael’s conversation with Adam. 

He’d paused, reading over the familiar lines, and thought for a moment. Him and the moment both reviewed the information available to them, and when the moment got up and left the meeting room, it left Aziraphale alone with a fully formed and potentially dangerous idea. 

This required further consultation. 

“My dear,” he’d said, reaching over to poke a Crowley-shaped lump of linens, “are you asleep yet?”

The lump made a noise that sounded something like “mmfflbffll,” and Aziraphale took this as tacit permission to continue talking. “I know you’re very tired, and feel free to ignore me if you think it’s ridiculous, but I was wondering if you might be willing to indulge me in an, ah, _experiment_.” 

This must have been enough to catch Crowley’s attention, because after some shifting, two golden eyes peeked out of the pile of sheets and fixed on Aziraphale’s face.

Aziraphale kept talking. “You have made your opinions of Milton perfectly clear in the past,” (a derisive scoff sounded from beneath the blankets), “but even you must admit that he had some interesting ideas, especially when it comes to his descriptions of angelic beings and their ways of… copulating.”

“Wait a tick,” Crowley said, pulling down the covers, “don’t tell me you –” 

Aziraphale barrelled on, “_Easier than air with air, if spirits embrace, / Total they mix, union of pure with pure_, oh, don’t you think it could be nice, dear? I know we don’t wish to couple like humans do, but I sometimes feel like I can’t show the true depths of my affection for you.” He started speaking faster, scared of being misconstrued, “I’m not unhappy, I’m perfectly content, _more_ than content with what we have now, but saying ‘I love you’ isn’t quite the same as showing it, and I know there are ways I can show it,” and here he pushed a hand into Crowley’s hair, “But I want you to truly _feel_ it.” 

Crowley’s eyes had shuddered closed the moment Aziraphale touched his hair, and when he opened them again, he looked curious. “I think I understand what you mean, angel, but I don’t know how you’re planning on having us fuse.” 

“Well,” Aziraphale said, “well, I thought we could try to replicate our body swap, and just add a pinch of possession to the process. Then we can see where it goes from there.”  
The silence after Aziraphale’s speech was not reassuring, but he had a plan to tempt the demon over to his side of things. 

Aziraphale put aside his book, devoting both hands to stroking Crowley’s hair. As he fondled his beloved’s locks, he slid further down the bed, properly lying down, and said in his softest voice, “I want to be _close_ to you, Crowley, closer than these human bodies allow.”

Crowley was leaning into his touch, and his eyes had closed once again. 

More touching, more silence.

“Alright.”

It was so quiet Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he’d heard it or not. 

“What? I didn’t quite catch that, dear,” he said.

“I sssaid _alright_, angel, let’s give it a go.” Crowley was keeping his eyes closed, but he was pressing himself against Aziraphale’s side when he said, “I seem to recall you saying we might explode, but if that’s how we’re going, then it best be together.”

It was probably a good thing Crowley’s eyes were shut, because Aziraphale was positive he was smiling so hard he was literally glowing.  
“Thank you darling, thank you so very much.”

“Mmmph,” Crowley grumped into Aziraphale’s chest, nudging his head against caressing hands. “Still don’t think that bastard Milton knew what he was on about.”

“Oh, hush you,” Aziraphale responded, and pulled the covers over them both.

\--

Loath as Aziraphale was to admit it, Crowley was right to be sceptical of Milton, because embracing each other’s spirits was not “Easier than air with air.” As it turns out, when you’re attempting to fuse every facet of your angelic body, mind, and soul with your demon lover on several different planes of reality, things can and will go awry if you don’t prepare beforehand. 

The first time they tried to couple in this way, they accidentally granted every person within a block of Aziraphale’s shop a divine revelation, caused seven traffic jams, killed eighteen rats, and re-grew one old woman’s amputated leg. 

Needless to say, the post-union clean up wasn’t much fun at all. 

But Aziraphale was stubborn, and Crowley was creative, and the actual act had been so delightful that they had both seen this mess as a minor setback. 

The second time they tried it, only one person suddenly won the lottery and only two ducks drowned in St. James Park, so they counted it as a success. 

But there were less noticeable consequences, consequences that didn’t reveal themselves for almost a week. It wasn’t until Aziraphale slept an entire day away, missing a dinner date, and Crowley found himself struggling with exhaustion that they realized Crowley had accidentally left his habit of sleeping in Aziraphale, and sorting that out was almost as unpleasant as explaining to Agatha why her missing leg was back. 

Since then, they’ve worked very hard to thread the line between protecting the space around them and making sure they can find their way back to their bodies safely. 

To this end, Aziraphale had thrown himself into his tomes of magic, poring over the knowledge he’d preserved over millennia, scanning page after page, book after book, looking for some kind of solution to their predicament. He’d read over rituals tracing back to humanity’s first records, pulled out the old stone tablets he’s guarded since 3100 BCE, even consulted the Milton passage again to see if he’d missed anything. He’d immersed himself so deeply in scripts both ancient and modern that Crowley had needed to pop by with a feather duster to keep Aziraphale clean. In the end, Aziraphale had enough notes written out that a graduate student would weep to see it. 

For his part, Crowley had spent an hour googling demonic rituals before getting sucked into a Wikipedia binge. He eventually just printed out 16 pages of an amateur wiccan blog he stumbled across and called it a day.

It wasn’t perfect, but between the two of them, it was enough to get started. 

Over the next three months, they would turn this research into something new, something functional, something that wasn’t quite holy and wasn’t quite infernal, but was very fussy and quite a bit flash.

In short, they found the solution they’d been searching for. 

(Luckily, it didn’t require sacrificing a goat).

\--

Their current list of rituals, written out on Aziraphale’s desk, includes the following rites:

1\. Enochian sigils need to be drawn in chalk on walls of the location, be it the bookshop or the Mayfair flat, each facing one of the cardinal directions. What these sigils actually say can vary. The east and south appreciate compliments, while the west only accepts passive aggressive film recommendations. The north doesn’t care what you write, as long as it isn’t song lyrics. 

2\. Blood has to be painted above the doors and windows. Aziraphale is certain that the butcher he purchases it from must think he’s some kind of serial killer at this point.

3\. Five lamps, no more, no less, must be placed in a semicircle around the bed. These cannot be substituted for candles, Crowley had been very insistent on this.

4\. The corners of the room where they intend to rest must be anointed with frankincense and myrrh, close enough to have some tangible presence but not so much that it makes Crowley sneeze. 

5\. They must create a binding circle, drawn out in chalk under the bed, to keep their essence from leaking out too far beyond each other. Aziraphale draws using nice and accurate lines, while Crowley’s binding circles are barely recognizable as circles, so Aziraphale tends to do this step by himself. 

6\. Two piles of crystals need to be stacked in pyramids on the bedside tables. These crystals range from rose quartz to diamonds to a pretty cool rock Crowley found in the park one time. 

7\. They both need to drink a cup of wine while twining their arms together. Aziraphale had pushed for the consumption of some cheese bread as well, but snacks were more of a distraction at this point in the proceedings, so they’d scrapped that part. 

8\. (Addendum): All of these actions must be performed over the course of seven days, one day for each plane of reality in which they will unite (and Aziraphale, at least, thinks it’s a nice analogue to Her first week, though he’s not about to point that out to Crowley). 

The rituals aren’t perfect, far from it, actually. The slapdash mix of olde magick and internet frippery would cause any witch worth their salt to turn up their nose in scorn. But that’s not what’s important. Aziraphale knows that’s not what’s important, and he knows Crowley feels the same. 

The _act_ of performing the rituals is more important than the results.

They are an angel and a demon, ethereal and occult beings that defy the laws of reality, but more importantly, they are creatures that were born to worship and be worshipped. All angels exist to exalt God, and all demons have the potential to be objects of profane devotion. 

This hasn’t changed for either of them in the aftermath of the not-pocalypse.

Even cut off from heaven, Aziraphale still feels the prayers invoking his name. He knows Crowley still feels the call of human cultists who try to summon him. But even though these are human supplications, the same ceremonies that allow Aziraphale to hear prayers and Crowley to be summoned can be replicated by non-human entities.  
And this is where the rites come in.

They have built and performed these rituals together. They have invented ceremonies which invoke only each other, each simultaneously becoming the worshipper and object of worship. The rites are a personal list of commandments, a holy and unholy service that can’t be breached by any outside force. Nor does it allow the two of them to mess with the world outside, since the focus of their devotion keeps them from meddling without notice. It’s a religion with no difference between the followers and the gods. 

It doesn’t matter that the rituals don’t actually do anything, because the rituals are acts of faith, and faith is all an angel and demon needs to work their magic. 

But the need for mutual reverence isn’t the only reason why Aziraphale has written out an itemized list of rituals for him and his lover to preform if they want to get intimate. 

If what they do is analogous to sex, a comparison Aziraphale makes only tentatively, then this is foreplay. 

That is to say, he enjoys it more than he should. 

\--

This particular evening is the culmination of a week’s worth of preparation, and Crowley is determined to make the most of it. 

Evenings or mornings are the best times for supernatural coupling, caught between the solid states of day and night, the liminal space lends power by thinning reality. 

(It’s also more romantic).

The sigils have been drawn, the lamps placed out, rocks stacked, and wine drunk. They’ve changed into the clothes they put aside specifically for this (Crowley is wearing an oversized band t-shirt and boxer briefs, Aziraphale is wearing a nightgown he’s had since 1876) and now they’re just waiting for the moment the sun touches the horizon. 

Neither of them are looking out the window, but they will both know the second it happens regardless.

Until that moment, Crowley and Aziraphale are sitting on the bed, facing each other but not touching. Crowley would love to reach out, to flop back on the sheets and drag Aziraphale with him, but he recognizes the role that patience plays, knows his mounting anticipation is part of this ritual too. 

(He’s spent millennia reigning in his desire to touch Aziraphale. What’s a few more minutes?)

In the meantime, Crowley allows himself to feast on the sight of Aziraphale’s wings. 

It’s not an unfamiliar sight. They’ve groomed each other’s feathers before, and that is a ritual in and of itself, but they have brought their wings out for a different purpose this evening. 

Soon, very soon, those wings are going to be wrapped around Crowley. 

This isn’t a regular facet of your standard angelic cuddle session, and Crowley would be insulted if anyone implied it was. There is a distinct difference between holding another human shaped being with your arms and holding them with your _wings_. 

Wings are the purest expression of their power the two of them can show on this plane of existence. Crowley’s feathers, should he pluck them, have the potential to corrupt a mortal soul just by holding them. Crowley’s not totally sure what effect Aziraphale’s feathers have on humans, but he’s operating under the assumption that it’s an “equal and opposite reaction” kind of deal. 

Trusting Aziraphale’s holy feathers not to hurt him, and having Aziraphale trust Crowley’s not to damage _him_ is a type of intimacy Crowley never let himself dream of prior to the end of the world.

It’s the purest expression of “our side” that he knows.

In the time Crowley’s spent thinking this, the sun has gone down. He feels it touch the horizon like an electric shock. Spurred into motion, Crowley reaches out with all six of his limbs (arms, legs, wings) and wraps them around Aziraphale, pulling him as close as he can as they tip over sideways. He can tell Aziraphale finds it endearing, doesn’t need to use his supernatural senses to hear his angel’s delighted giggle, and Crowley is rewarded with more than laughter as he feels Aziraphale’s left wing force itself under Crowley’s body. It’s the softest thing Crowley has ever known, and he tries to snuggle into it with his whole body while not letting Aziraphale go. 

Aziraphale, gracious, beneficent angel that he is, wraps his other wing over Crowley’s body so he isn’t forced to choose. At the same time, Aziraphale worms his arms out of Crowley’s embrace and brings them around to cradle Crowley even closer, to caress his spine and stroke the base of his black wings. Crowley doesn’t try to hide his pleased moan, and shows his appreciation by nuzzling his face against Aziraphale’s throat. 

Wrapped up in each other’s wings, Crowley is sure that from the outside they must look like a fluffy ball of feathers. They probably look ridiculous, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Even though it’s the basest level of their union, Crowley has to admit that it’s still one of his favourites. Being held like this by Aziraphale is always nice, loath that he is to use the word, but it’s also something more. 

Being wrapped in Aziraphale’s embrace makes Crowley feel _safe_. 

So even as his mind (his essence? His consciousness? He isn’t sure) turns to other planes of reality, Crowley is sure to keep a piece of himself present, here, in Aziraphale’s arms.  
Being held like he’s something fragile, something precious, something _worthy_ – 

It’s bliss.

\--

Their union is not so tender on the celestial plane. 

Aziraphale doesn’t think that his true angelic form has the capacity to be tender, or subtle, or anything less than glorious. Awful and terrible to behold, but in the old sense of the words because Aziraphale is not bad to look upon, just overwhelming. 

Thousands of wings stretch out and out across space and time, each covered in millions of eyes, white and blue and dazzling. Golden rings, tempered with the holy fire of creation, burn above and around and inside him. Aziraphale’s core is a steady stream of light and flames, a whirlwind of heat fuelled by the love and wrath of angelic grace, and he is _glorious_.

He is also not alone. 

As Aziraphale fixes his attention on Crowley, all of his eyes swivelling in feathery sockets towards him, Aziraphale takes a moment to gaze upon his beloved, even as he brings all of his wings forward to wrap around Crowley’s form.

Where Aziraphale is blazing with holy luminescence, Crowley’s dark wings gobble up any light that comes in contact with them. The hungry mouths hidden under feathers have snake eyes hidden in their throats, some gleaming with wicked intent, others dull and blind. Crowley doesn’t have flaming rings, but rather spinning ouroboros, hundreds of snakes biting their tails. Perhaps the biggest difference between them is that Aziraphale’s core is immaterial, whereas Crowley has a body. 

Crowley’s torso is that of a massive serpent, and he is winding his coils around Aziraphale’s boiling core, cool scales soothing the fire they rest on. This contact clearly isn’t enough, though, and Aziraphale watches with innumerable eyes as Crowley’s snakey rings release their tails and slither over Aziraphale’s many, many wings. They twine themselves around his feathers, making the vanes shudder and the shafts twitch. 

Then they all bite down at the same time. 

The pain of their fangs is exquisite, and Aziraphale feels it resonate across his whole form like a church bell. 

It is a challenge, a gauntlet thrown, a duel that Aziraphale is unwilling to lose. 

Aziraphale’s hundred arms are made of molten bronze, but he keeps his strength wrapped under vellum, coating his limbs with memories of manuscripts he illuminated himself. He reaches ink spattered fingers out, grasping towards Crowley’s serpentine torso. He doesn’t need to reach far, they’re already close, but Aziraphale is about the rip apart any space lingering between them. 

He’s also about to rip open Crowley.

Prising his hands between ebony scales, Aziraphale digs his fingers into Crowley’s flesh. The responding hiss reverberates through Aziraphale’s being, and the rings of snakes latched onto his wings tighten their grip even further. Undeterred, Aziraphale begins to pull apart the space where he thinks Crowley’s chest is. He watches with too many eyes as the scales tear under his grip. 

Crowley’s ribcage can’t take the pressure and bursts.

And Aziraphale’s eyes are treated to this, to Crowley’s core spilling out on him, full of vice and ichor and honey and petals –

Crowley is full of plants. 

Flowers and ivy, trees and fruit, the splendour of Eden pours out of Crowley’s sundered body, a temptation Aziraphale isn’t trying to resist. Every plant that has ever grown on earth is bleeding out over Aziraphale’s arms and wings and core. They should burn where they touch his fire, but instead they are dyed the colours of a star’s core, the sweet shade of holy fission. 

Aziraphale reaches inside Crowley’s chest and tears out fistfuls of leaves, and Crowley’s whole being shudders against him. For a moment, Aziraphale is distracted from his plunder by Crowley’s wings bearing down on his own, the mouths catching against his feathers, but he will not be thwarted. His divine retribution feels too good to stop. 

Aziraphale can’t tell if it’s fucking or fighting, but maybe there isn’t a difference here.

\--

On another plane of existence, Crowley is floating on an ocean.

He’s not shaped like a human or a demon. In fact, he’s not really sure what he’s shaped like right now, except that he’s small and compact. 

And he can’t breach the water. 

It’s not for lack of trying. He’s doing his best to press himself into the ocean, but it’s like trying to push two magnets with the same polarity together. 

He can feel the swell of Aziraphale under him, but he can’t move past the surface.

Crowley knows what’s stopping him. Six thousand years of hiding and suppressing and _you go too fast for me_ has made him hold his feelings close, made him keep the sting of heartbreak from tearing him to pieces by pretending he never had a heart in the first place. Crowley has spent millennia pressing his feelings down like grapes, making a vintage labelled _Aziraphale_ and banishing it to the wine cellar to ferment. 

He has forced the ocean of his love into a teacup, and the idea of spilling is scary.

But the problem is that Aziraphale has caught up, and now it’s Crowley who is lagging behind.

The waves are gentle, the ripples teasing at his sides, beckoning him down, down to where its deep and calm, but his angel is being unbearably patient. Aziraphale will let him float if he that’s all he can do, but it isn’t what Crowley _wants_. 

Aziraphale’s waves are gentle, and Crowley _wants_ –

He wants…

He remembers…

He remembers a time during the Shang Dynasty in China, when he had stolen a box full of Aziraphale’s inksticks. They were elaborately carved things, made of soot and glue, and Crowley had stolen them both to annoy Aziraphale and because he was curious. To sate his curiousity, he experimented by dumping a stick in a bowl of water, and it dissolved. Not all at once, mind you, it was slow at first, barely noticeable. But once the water had seeped in, whole chunks of ink separated, ruining the carvings and mingling soot and glue with water until the original inkstick was gone. In the end, Crowley was left with a bowl full of inky water (or was it watery ink?) which he then dumped on a chrysanthemum he had been keeping in his room. 

Crowley isn’t an inkstick, but he feels that the same principle applies.

He takes a metaphorical second to breath (no lungs here, no air), lets himself go fuzzy around the edges, and sinks. 

As the full force of Aziraphale envelops him, Crowley allows himself to dissolve, to make room between his atoms that Aziraphale can fill with himself and his love. Wispy lines trail off Crowley’s form and fray his sides away at a slowly increasing rate. 

Crowley didn’t realise that holding himself together so tightly had hurt, but now that he’s drifting apart, he feels a sort of relief. Even better, he can feel that relief spreading through the places he’s mixing with Aziraphale. 

Soon, Crowley knows that he’ll start coming apart in chunks, that eventually (hopefully) there won’t be any ounce of Aziraphale that doesn’t also contain Crowley, and vice versa. Until that moment, Crowley will float under his angel’s waves and rest, surrounded by Aziraphale’s love as he lets himself go. 

And here, it is calm. 

\--

It is also calm in the infinite reaches of space, out beyond the known boundaries of the universe.

It is calm, but it’s not empty. 

Aziraphale is a star, a supermassive blue-white O-type star that burns hotter than 50,000 degrees kelvin. He is one of the brightest objects in the universe, has more mass than a human mind can comprehend, and is consuming the nuclear fuel of his core at such a pace that he can’t properly radiate the heat out to his surface. 

Aziraphale knows all of this instinctively. He might not have the same astronomical knowledge as Crowley, but Aziraphale knows himself. 

Normally stars like him would be found in the spiralling arms of galaxies, but he’s been led off course, pulled away from the nurseries of suns into another being’s gravity. 

O-type stars are generally short lived. They burn too hot and too fast to live for long (at least on a celestial timescale). When they die, it’s in a supernova, a massive nuclear blast that either destroys the star entirely or transforms it into something else. 

When they explode, O-type stars turn into black holes. 

And so did Crowley.

And Aziraphale is being drawn in. 

As he pulls near, Aziraphale begins to circle Crowley, slowly rotating around the dense, space-eating object he calls his lover. Crowley is tugging on him insistently, incessantly, and while Aziraphale would like to play coy, he finds himself moving closer with every cycle. He might be one of the brightest objects in the universe, but his light is being gobbled up, sucked in by Crowley’s impossible pull. 

(It tickles).

Humans scientists say that nothing can escape a black hole, that once an object has hit the event horizon, it is trapped. Not even light can get out. 

Aziraphale supposes this must be true. He’s certainly never been able to escape Crowley’s gravity, not once in six thousand years has he ever moved beyond his orbit, not even when he tried to convince himself he wanted to. Now Aziraphale is on the brink, about to hit the point of no return, and he’s not afraid (not anymore). 

Tendrils of Aziraphale are being stripped away from his body, coiling over Crowley’s lip. The rest of Aziraphale spirals closer; he is one of the brightest objects in the universe, and now he is forming a corona around Crowley, burning brighter and brighter still. 

Crowley is ripping apart Aziraphale’s atoms and they are loving it. 

But the best is yet to come, because just like Aziraphale knows himself, he knows Crowley. Thus, he knows what waits for him at Crowley’s centre, what awaits Aziraphale once he is consumed entirely.

Human scientists have theorized that at the centre of a black hole lies the point of singularity, something that defies the laws of spacetime as humans understand them. It’s the place where the gravitational field of a black hole becomes infinite.

And Aziraphale supposes this must be true, because touching Crowley feels like infinity. 

But that’s enough science for now. 

\--

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

Aziraphale is an angel, and all angels are messengers of the Lord, and God is the word.

Aziraphale was born of Her words and has always borne her words. Technically that should be enough to please him, to be a vessel containing God’s labels and instructions. But Aziraphale is a coveting thing, something that wants and desires even though he shouldn’t. So he has spent his life on earth surrounding himself with words, seeking more and more and more. He consumes them and hoards them with a hedonistic abandon that would be shameful if he didn’t enjoy it so much. 

Now, Aziraphale is as much made of humanity’s words as he is the words of God. 

(Crowley knows all this, has watched it happen while coveting something other than language).

And here, Aziraphale is the word. Or rather, he is the words. He is nothing but language exalting that which he holds sacred, and what he holds sacred (blasphemy though it is) is Crowley. Language makes up Aziraphale’s being, every inch of him script and none of it prose. Aziraphale is noise, he shouts and he is shouting and he knows no hesitation. Every word that makes up Aziraphale screams _ILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOUILOVEYOU_ and _CROWLEYCROWLEYCROWLEYCROWLEYCROWLEYCROWLEYCROWLEY_ infinitely into existence. 

It’s deafening to imagine, and even louder than that to behold.

Crowley adores it. 

When Crowley fell, he had more than Her Grace ripped from him, he lost her words as well. Crowley cannot match Aziraphale’s undying, unceasing declarations of love. He can’t speak, is barred from the words that Aziraphale presses into him with sacrilegious passion.

Crowley was made mute by the fall, and that means he must show his love differently. 

So Crowley shows his love through silence.

He is the pause between _I_ and _love_ and _you_, giving each word weight and gravity, he is the silent breath of air after a whispered lover’s name, he is the moment of quiet between a declaration of love and a tearful, joyful response. 

But without the words, the pauses are awkward, they stretch too long, and Crowley can’t fill them on his own. 

So Aziraphale and Crowley are building meaning together. 

Crowley is choosing where to inject the silences, where to break up Aziraphale’s endless words, and they are _building meaning together_. Aziraphale has enough words for the both of them, and Crowley might not be able to scream _ILOVEYOU_ with his whole being, but he can turn his lover’s shouts into an _I love you_ that gives the words each a moment to live and breathe and die in the space between them.

(Is there any more space between them?)

I love you 

I love you

I love you

They wouldn’t be able say it alone, and they wouldn’t want to say it to anyone but each other. 

But beyond noise and silence, there is another place where they are joining, and it’s a bit less loud. 

\--

Imagine sitting in a church. It is made of old stones and has wide, tall windows which light up the arching ceiling and the space below. You sit in a pew alone but do not feel lonesome. 

Imagine you are holding two circles of stained glass. One is blue, the other is red, and to your human eyes they are otherwise identical. When you hold them up to the light streaming in through the windows, you can see the blue and red glass light up, and it is beautiful.

Now you take the two circles, and slowly, carefully overlap them. 

The light showing through them changes as they cover each other. It is no longer blue light, or red light, but purple. The blue and red circles are still there, because without their separate colours, this shade of purple could not exist, but the circles, the exact same shape to your human eyes, cover each other entirely, and there is no difference between the colour of light pouring through them. 

And it is beautiful. Your mouth smiles to see it. 

Of course, this is not a perfect metaphor. Aziraphale and Crowley are not glass, they’re not even three dimensional in this layer of existence. But they are overlapping, and where they overlap, they are making something new, something made up of their composite parts but still distinct. It’s like childbirth, it’s like the final note of a song, it’s like a first kiss.  
And like the glass in the church, it is beautiful. 

But on another, further plane, further and farthest still – 

\--

There is this

There are no words, in any human language to describe this

(There aren’t in any celestial or infernal language either)

If there is a way to describe this, then only God knows, and She’s not sharing

But that’s not what’s important

What’s important is that 

Crowley

and 

Aziraphale 

are here 

together

and that’s all that matters

(at least to them)

.  
.  
.

\--

All rituals must end, and for them, it ends with sunrise. 

As he collapses himself back into himself, Crowley, as always, feels a sense of loss. It’s the first distinct emotion he can identify under the haze that accompanies his interplanar stretching, and it makes him feel clingy. Trying not to be too pathetic, Crowley hugs Aziraphale closer with all four of his limbs (arms, legs), clutching at him like a life preserver.

Given the way Aziraphale is squeezing him back, Crowley is positive he’s not the only one feeling a little bereft. Time goes a bit fuzzy (or Crowley just stops paying attention to it) and they don’t bother moving from each other’s embrace. 

Crowley’s on the brink of falling asleep when a loud rumble breaks the silence. 

He grins against Aziraphale’s chest. “Hungry, angel?”

“Maybe a bit peckish, but I’d rather stay here a moment longer.”

“I’m not going to argue with that,” Crowley says, and trails a hand over Aziraphale’s back. 

Aziraphale sighs, and they continue to lie wrapped up together. 

The second rumble is much more insistent, clearly upset its previous effort was ignored. Crowley knows from experience that Aziraphale isn’t going to disregard this one and decides to cut his losses, pulling back his arms and legs, and pushing himself into a more vertical position (a relative of a slouch, not quite a sit). He looks down at Aziraphale and offers a hand. 

(Crowley is pretty sure he’s hidden the longing on his face, but without his sunglasses, he can’t be sure). 

Despite being the one who’s stomach interrupted a good cuddle session, Aziraphale seems reluctant to sit. He takes Crowley’s hand, but once he’s up, he doesn’t let go. 

Aziraphale just sits there, looking at Crowley’s hand with a steady intent that’s making Crowley a bit nervous. 

“Aziraphale?”

He startles. “Oh! Sorry, dearest, just got caught up in a thought,” Aziraphale says, then chuckles, “Surely you know how dangerous that can be.”

“I’m all for danger, practically made of the stuff. Let’s hear it then,” Crowley leans forward, curious.

Aziraphale stares at Crowley’s face for another long moment. His mouth is screwed up like it does when he’s trying to work out a puzzle, so Crowley tries to be still and allow Aziraphale to find whatever answer he’s looking for. 

“I…” Aziraphale starts, “I… should preface this by saying that if you think it’s ridiculous then there’s no need to humour me, but I was thinking just now that it’s such a lovely feeling, being close to you in so many ways, and I do adore it, but the feeling when we part is so awful, it’s like I’m having a piece of my soul torn away, so I thought to myself, surely there must be a way to keep you close even when we’re apart, and then I started thinking about all the rituals we do, how we perform them and how that is a good deal of fun and –”

“Aziraphale, you’re getting off track.”

Aziraphale stops, takes a deep breath, then pulls Crowley’s hands to rest against his chest.

“I think I may have figured out a way for us to stay bound even when we’re apart. Or rather, I remembered a _human_ ritual that would allow us to be together always.”  
Now that’s interesting. “How do you figure?” Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale shifts so that he’s directly in front of Crowley, pulling at his arms until Crowley actually sits up instead of lounging vertically. Then, looking him directly in the eyes, Aziraphale grips both of his hands tight and says:

“Crowley, will you marry me?”

Crowley doesn’t remember what happens right after that. He thinks he blacks out with his eyes open, but his mental capacity to understand anything turned off the instant Aziraphale said those words.

As Crowley comes to, he works his jaw and makes nonsense noises for a few seconds, trying to reboot. In the meantime, Aziraphale stares at him, looking more and more anxious. 

“Are you quite alright, dear? Do you need a moment?” He asks gently. 

That is enough to spur Crowley to motion. The motion he chooses is shouting. “I don’t need a moment! Aziraphale! Aziraphale you!! Yes! Yes I will marry you! Six thousand and you think –! I don’t! It’s! Yes! Gah!”

Fantastic. He’s back to nonsense noises. Crowley tries to hide his blush by stuffing his face against Aziraphale’s shoulder and promptly shuts up. 

Aziraphale lets go of his hands, bringing an arm around Crowley’s shoulders and the other hand up to stroke Crowley’s hair. He keeps petting Crowley’s head even as Crowley starts to shake. 

“Are you crying?” Aziraphale says.

“No,” Crowley lies. 

“Darling, you absolutely are.” Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s smile without seeing it but can’t tell if it’s delighted or smug. Aziraphale continues, “It’s very sweet to see you so affected.”

Crowley pulls back to glare at him. “Sssssshut up! You can’t jusst asssk me to _marry you_ without, without expecting me to–”

He is cut off by Aziraphale pressing his mouth against Crowley’s. 

The kiss lingers, and even when they part, they’re still close enough that Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s lips move when he says, “I promise to cherish you, dearest. I swear I’ll keep you forever and always.”

Crowley’s afraid he might start crying again, but then Aziraphale says, “since I proposed, I believe the least you can do is take me out to brunch as recompense.”

Smug bastard. Crowley loves him so much.

\--

After brunch they go ring shopping.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my mom, dad, and sister for listening to me edit this out loud and for proof reading it. I appreciate it a lot.
> 
> And hey! This was the first piece of creative writing I've done in over half a decade, so all comments are welcome! (Please, I need validation).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Rituals (or the Seven Layer Bean Dip Approach to Sex), by SleepySelfLoathing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21508519) by [Thimblerig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig)


End file.
